Only the Strong Survive
by IamRigby
Summary: This is the story about Daryl Dixon and his daughter.


I used to think being a Dixon was one of the worst things in the world. When I was five, my mother left me with my father and my uncle. My dad would always tell me that my mom was out there somewhere thinking about me, whereas my drunken uncle would just tell me that she was probably a stripper known as Candy in some raunchy ass bar. Back then, I didn't know what to believe. I know now that my uncle was more than likely right, and that I should have just kept my mouth shut about her to avoid hearing all the bullshit he would tell me about her. But, no matter what I did or said, I would always end up hearing, seeing, and saying all the things a young girl should probably not hear, see, or say. Let me introduce myself…my name is Darby Dixon, daughter of Daryl Dixon and some stripper known as Candy, also niece of the late Merle Dixon, which is just plain embarrassing if you knew what the guy did before shit went down. I'm sixteen-years-old, and all I'm trying to do is survive. Now that it's the apocalypse, I'm pretty damn glad that I am a Dixon.

Before meeting everyone at the little campsite with Dale's RV, my dad, uncle, and I, just sort of drifted around. We had no place to go; we were pretty much nothing. It was when I met everyone at the campsite that I realized we were pretty much all at the same status. We are _all _nothing. Anyway, we just sort of made our way along, my dad and uncle riding on their motorbikes, and taking out all the dead people that got in the way. I had a lot of time to think, just sitting on the back of the bike while I held onto my uncle for dear life. I thought about a lot of things. My mom, my old school, friends, pretty much everything that was gone. I missed those things then, even though it wasn't that long ago that I had them. Now, nearly four years into the apocalypse, I don't really miss those things at all.

The prison is a "black" place, or so my dad says. He says that about everything that gives off a dark, boring vibe. But, it's probably the nicest place that we've ever been at. It's got gates, a watchtower, cells, a big cafeteria, it's just perfect for our group. It's certainly a lot better than Hershel's farm, don't get me wrong, but it just seemed so scary there. At the farm, there were no gates, watchtowers, or cells. It had a kitchen, but it was defiantly no cafeteria that could fit us all.

"Darby!" my dad yells into my cell. I can tell by the way he yelled it that there was some "urgent" work to be done. Of course, being a part of the Dixon family, I'm actually expected to do more…grown up things. That's another one of the reasons of why I hate my last name. Just because I'm a Dixon, I'm automatically labeled as a badass.

I look up from cleaning off my knife and sigh. "What's going on, dad?"

He steps into my cell, slinging his bow over his shoulder. "You weren't at breakfast," he proclaims. "What've you been doing in here, huh?" I can't help but smile. I'm sure the others would smile too, hearing the rare worry tone that just rang through his voice.

"I've been cleaning my knife. I like it to be shiny." I hold up my knife, presenting the twinkling silver in the light so he can see.

My dad scoffs at that. "It's just gonna get dirty again, girly. I don't see why you like to be shiny."

"Carl told me that it's good to take care of your weapons."

I watch as his blue-grey eyes glaze over. He always gets annoyed whenever I put both, "Carl," and "Weapons," into a sentence. He thinks that Carl doesn't know anything about weapons. I don't blame him, little boys are always stupid with weapons. "If Carl told you it was good to stab yourself in the chest, would you do it?"

"Dad," I bring a hand to my forehead in exasperation, "why the fuck would Carl tell me to stab myself in the chest?"

"Girl," his voice goes dark, "I've told you not to talk like that."

I put my knife in my holster on my belt and stand up, walking towards him. "I won't talk like that anymore, sorry." His faces goes from being angry to tolerant. "So, what're we doing today, pop?" I change the subject as quickly as possible just to avoid a lecture.

He gives a slight smile and grabs the strap of his bow. "We're going hunting."


End file.
